Covenant
by BlackDewInTheMorning
Summary: Dean's time is up and he's dead and gone to Hell. But Sam still won't give up on him, and some promises are even stronger than deals with the devil. AU Spin-off Season 4 Episode 1: "Lazarus Rising." UPDATE: Suspended indefinitely until I can get my other stories done!
1. What the Fudge?

Summary: Dean's time is up and he's dead and gone to Hell. But Sam still won't give up on him, and some promises are even stronger than deals with the devil. AU spinoff Season 4 Episode 1: Lazarus Rising. (i.e. An alternate version of how Dean came back from Hell.)

Rating PG-13

Author: BlackDewintheMorning

Disclaimer: As for ownership: I wish it was mine, but it's not.

-------------

Author's (Very Long) Note:

/looks around abashedly/ So. I really, really wasn't on planning on writing this. I wasn't even thinking about writing it. In fact, I was so against writing it, that I'm still not entirely sure how it showed up on my monitor.

November is terrible. Whoever chose November to be NaNoWriMo should be shot. There is just no time to write anything, between all the essays, projects, and traveling for Thanksgiving break and all. I've been so stressed out that even writing—my usual escape from the real world—has been too much. So I decided to catch up on a TV show I haven't watched for at least a year: Supernatural.

I shouldn't have done it.

But it's done. I'm caught up with the show, and intrigued about what's going to be happening next. Still, as I was browsing through looking for good ff to help me with my continued procrastination of work (I've never touched the Supernatural fanfiction category), I got bored and impatient, and decided I needed something really distracting—especially considering that at the moment I'm trying to put off doing a 12 page essay that's due this next Tuesday (Why is it that all the fun goes out of writing when you *have* to do it?).

Before I knew it I had two chapters of this story written out. I was about to save it along with the million other "ideas that will probably never be finished" files that are cluttering my computer, when I figured, what the heck? I'll post it and see what people think, though I have no idea how far this is going to go. The idea snuck up and pounced on me, I'm afraid.

For my other readers, don't worry about me dropping "The Meaning of Pain." I have been working on it, but regretfully not in very good chronological order. Some scenes are just demanding to be written out of order. :) It's fun, but it's not very helpful on the posting front. Still, I'm planning on polishing up the next chapter and posting the first week of December. Keep hope!

So on to the story. As usual--unbetaed, and fresh from my mind disgorged onto the 'net for all of you to enjoy (heh). Anyway, now that you know my life's story, enjoy. I'd love to hear what you think!

_-------------------------------------------_

Prologue:

_Sam scrambled across the floor, ignoring Ruby/Lilith's dead body. His knees soaked with blood from the floor as he caught a hold of Dean, raising him up slowly._

_Dean didn't answer. His glazed eyes stared, caught in the middle of pain and shock and cut short as his heart was ripped from him._

"_No, Dean, no. Dean!" Sam's voice broke. "Dean!"_

_Sam cried out, hunching over his brother's body and letting his grief take him._

_Dean Winchester was dead, his soul dragged to hell._

_It was over._

------------------------------------

Chapter 1: What the Fudge?

------------------------------------

_Three months later._

------------------------------------

_Eyelids went first. Peeled off, ripped off, shredded or scorched. Always went first._

_They liked to have him see._

_They liked to have him watch. Liked to have him see as he felt. Made it worse—always made it worse._

_Heart clawed out. Liver shredded, dripping black blood like tears. Gut peeled open like an autopsy. Eyes gauged out by pins, by knives, by fingernails. Eyes always last, though. Always last. Just a millisecond of darkness. A fraction of rest, of blindness, before it all started over again . . . _

_It went dark._

. . . . .

"Graaaaaaaaaargh!" Dean jerked awake, his heart beating fit to burst. _Pain, pain, pain . . . _

No. It was fading. Memory. God, they'd done it again, hadn't they? No, not God. Pure Hell. They'd carved him up, nothing left. Carved him to his bones an started over, always started over.

He blinked furiously, liquid spilling from his eyes, but his vision didn't clear. Darkness surrounded him, stifling him.

_What the hell?_

It was dark. Why was it dark? It was never dark. Always bright, too bright, even in the shadows. No rest, no exit, no escape.

He reached out, the fact that he could move his arms only sending a further tremor of terror down his spine. Just above his face—wood. To the sides, too. The air was close, thick, musky. Too tight. Couldn't breathe.

They'd gotten tired of the old games. Gotten tired and decided to play something new.

Dean thumped his fist against the wood. Dirt trickled down, scattering over his face, his clothes.

Burying him alive? That was new.

He gasped, choking on his own breathe as panic began to rise.

_Not again. Please, not again. I'll do anything._

"Tryin' to scare me?" Dean rasped hoarsely. Spit tasted like blood. Everything tasted like blood, until they would cut out his tongue and he couldn't taste anything at all. "I ain't gonna give, you sons of bitches. I ain't gonna give, you hear?!"

He slammed his fists against the wood, heedless of the pain as his breath hitched. The pain was nothing compared to what was coming, and it didn't matter. He needed the fury, the rage. It was almost enough to ignore the desperation that was screaming despite the defiant words.

_No more_. _He'd give in. Couldn't take it anymore. Please . . . ._

"Help!" he gasped, clawing at the boards. His fingernails snapped and blood ran down his hands in the darkness. "Help!"

His fingers found a crack in the wood. Panting, he slid his fingers in. The board moved, raining dirt onto him, into his mouth. He froze, lungs freezing with panic.

Buried alive. How deep? Had they buried him in the basement of hell? Got bored of him and thrown him out?

"Damn this," he whispered. He wrenched the board aside. It's not like it could kill him. He was already dead.

A hundred pounds of dirt collapsed onto him. He choked, scrambling upwards, fighting the pull as the dirt threatened to pull him down, and down, and down. . . .

His lungs were bursting. His blind eyes were white as his body screamed for him to breathe, but he swam through the filth, swam through the darkness, choking on the scent of death as he rose up, and up . . .

"Gah!" He burst through the earth, gasping in a breath full of air. He choked, spitting out dirt onto the ground as he dragged himself out onto the grass . . . . "Guh, uh, uh . . . ."

Grass?

He wiped the dirt from his eyes and opened them, immediately shrinking back and raising an arm to shade himself from the brightness. His breath caught, sending up a coughing fit that sent another mouthful of dirt-crusted spit into the dirt.

Still shading his eyes, he squinted around, his heart twisting like a knife. Grass. Blue sky. The sun.

"God, no," he panted. He looked behind him. A wooden cross stuck out at the head of the ground where he'd broken through. His grave. He turned around, tears stinging his eyes. "What games're you playin' now, huh? You think you can trick me? Show me freedom and pull it away just like that? You can't fool me, you bastards. I'm not your bitch!"

Silence. Dead silence. Dean stood slowly, waiting for them to appear. Waiting.

Nothing. A bird sang in the distance.

A bird?

He turned towards the sound, still shading his eyes against the blinding light, then went still.

The trees around him were flattened, knocked over. Some ripped right out of the ground, roots and all. The bird sang on.

_Demons might be clever in their nastiness, but this was a bit far out, even for one of them_. _They liked things simple, like a knife scouring flesh from the bone._

He turned around slowly, taking in the scene.

Was he out?

He expected something at the thought—hope, elation, joy, relief. But there was nothing.

_He couldn't let himself hope. They'd shatter it all over again. He couldn't take it again. Couldn't lose it again._

He turned, lifting a hand to brush the dirt from his shirt, but as his hand brushed his shirt agony shot down his spine and he gasped, recoiling in on himself as he stared down.

His hand was pressed over his chest, blood leaking between his fingers from the claw marks that had shredded him, tore out his heart, killed him.

"Son of a bitch," he gasped, staring at the blood flooded down his front. Why hadn't he noticed before?

_Already felt too much. Gone numb. Even the agony was distant._

Blood trickled down his hand as he stared, and but stopped at his elbow. He froze, bringing his other hand up to his right arm.

He'd had a scar there for years, sliced right down the length of his forearm, and as familiar to him as any part of his body. It was gone.

A white pentagon was seared in its place—plain, unadorned, and he hissed and pulled back as his fingers brushed it. The mark still burned.

What the hell was going on here? This felt a bit much for the sadistic bastards downstairs, though he wouldn't put it past them.

On the other hand, if he _was_ out . . . .

_Dammit, Sammy, what have you done?_

-----------------------------------------------------------

TBC . . .

I know this starts out almost exactly like the episode, but I'm just setting the stage and trying to get the feel for writing these new characters. Next chapter should probably be up tomorrow.


	2. Not Again

All right. Not the strongest start in reviews considering the number of readers, but I guess the first chapter wasn't much to go on. Thanks to cursedgirl for her review. I hope this was fast enough for you. ;)

Quite a short chapter this time, but there's more where this came from. So . . . on to the chapter. Please review. :)

* * *

Chapter 2: Not Again

* * *

Dean staggered along the roadside, one hand held over his chest, though logically he figured it didn't make one hell of a difference considering the good it did. He felt odd—disconnected. Probably the blood loss. Had to get to a phone, call an ambulance. . . .

Where was Sam? His grave'd been grown over. With his experience of digging up as many graves as he had to in this business, he figured he'd been buried a couple months at least, given how the earth had sunk and the grass had grown over it. The air still felt like the summer, and he'd say his grave hadn't seen a good winter since he'd been buried.

_A couple months? Only?_

If Sam'd been planning a resurrection or whatever-the-hell, he should have at least pulled him up first, even if he couldn't be there to drive him to the hospital himself.

_God, Sammy. Where was he? What the hell'd he been doing all these months?_

The street was empty, but despite his injuries he moved quickly. The pain was reasonable, though. He could deal with it. Nothing like he'd become used to.

Kept hazing out, though. He'd let his mind drift and suddenly he'd be on another fifty yards along. Pain or no pain, he needed blood to keep his heart pumping.

That was fine. As long as he kept walking, kept breathing, he'd be fine.

He wasn't dying already and going back there. He wasn't ever going back.

He didn't remember seeing the service station from a distance—it snuck up on him, with him not even noticing it until he'd stepped right into the parking lot.

He stopped, wavering slightly on his feet as he saw the battered payphone booth not ten feet away.

_Call Sammy._

No ambulance—not yet. Had to find out what shit he'd pulled.

He staggered towards it, but the next thing he knew he was already holding the phone. It felt cold in his hand—like it was about to slip right out of his grip.

Black-outs getting worse. Didn't even remember opening the booth door.

At least he hadn't fallen down yet.

_Call Sammy._

He dialed collect. There was no answer; phone said it'd been disconnected.

Undeterred, Dean dialed in Bobby's number. It took him four tries to get the number right—kept skipping digits on accident. He had to focus and dial each number at a time before it finally rang.

"Yeah?"

The connection was bad. He could hardly make out Bobby's voice over the static.

Hopefully it was just the connection, not anything else around. He wasn't in a state to take down anything right now.

"Bobby?"

There was a pause.

"Hello?"

Damn. He couldn't seem to hear him.

"Bobby—"

"Hello?"

"Bobby, can't you—"

_Brrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr_ . . . . . the line went dead.

"Damn it, Bobby," Dean muttered. He dialed the number again. It took him three times this time, and he leaned against the side of the phone booth, feeling faint and cold. Couldn't even feel the pain in his chest anymore. That couldn't be good.

_Riiiing. Riing._

"Hello?"

"Bobby. Can you hear me?" Dean demanded, wiping his face with a hand that shook no matter how still he tried to keep it. "I-it's me."

Silence.

"Bobby?"

"Who's 'me'?" His voice was guarded.

"Dean."

_Brrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr. . . . . . _The line went dead again.

"Shit," Dean swore weakly. The phone slipped from his hand as he tried to adjust his grip. He fumbled for it, but it slammed against the booth, dangling limply from its cord.

He bent over, but the world keeled under him and he grabbed the wall to keep from falling on his face.

_Call Sam_.

_Can't. Phone disconnected; hell knows where he is._

The inner voice was persistent. His little brother needed him.

_Call Sam._

The world had slowed in its rotation again, and Dean reached for the phone.

His hand passed right through it.

He froze, still leaning against the glass half-bent over to reach it. He tried again, closing his fist around the phone. His fingers passed through it and gripped nothing.

He stared, pulling back slowly as he stared at his hand. He looked solid enough, felt solid enough. He felt his face, his arms. Dammit, he felt real enough. Even still had the marks from being sliced up—

His arms reached his chest and he froze.

The blood was gone. The marks gone. His shirt was untorn and clean. Even the blood and dirt on his hands from digging out of his own grave were gone.

He reached for the phone again, passing right through the cord.

"Son of a bitch," he breathed.

_Not again._

_---------------------------------_

TBC . . . .

/gets down on knees to beg/ Reviews please?


	3. The Persistence of Memory

Yay! Back from Thanksgiving Break and in the crunch time before finals.

Next chapter might take a few more days to get out, what with the procrastination minor I'm trying to graduate with. Still, this is a longer chapter, so I hope I can squeeze some reviews out from you guys.

Enjoy. After this chapter things are going to get a little crazy, if they go according to plan.

-------------------------------------------

Chapter 3: The Persistence of Memory

-------------------------------------------

Dean tried picking up the phone again. He got a hold of it after a few tries, but after he did he just let it go, letting it bang against the side of the phonebooth again. He watched it swing, listening to his heart patter on inside.

Inside. How could he hear his heart when he didn't have one? How could he feel it pumping his blood when he didn't have any blood? He was a ghost, for crying out loud.

Well, hell. No point whining about it.

He reached to open the phonebooth, and almost fell right through it as his hand passed cleanly through. He jerked back his hand and glared at the glass.

_Well, what the hell?_

He walked clean out the door.

Felt weird. Kinda tingly, almost.

That sounded dirty.

_Really, man. Get your head on the job._

So Sam must've done something to haul his ass out of hell. He'd kiss him if he could for that. Other things to do, too, though. He'd track him down and figure out what was going on. If need be, they'd dig up his bones and burn them (Had they been in the ground with him? He hadn't seen them, but that didn't mean anything). Sammy was probably still blaming himself for the whole mess . . . .

Sam.

Dean stopped stand-still, going cold.

_Lilith_.

He'd left Sammy with Lilith. Had his heart ripped out and seen his brother's horrified face as he'd died. Sam's cell phone was disconnected. Was he even alive?

Of course he was. Who else would bury him? Who else would bring him back?

Agony shot down his chest, and he gasped, gritting his teeth against the sudden pain. He'd pressed his hand against his ribs without thinking, and he looked down to see his shredded chest once again. He pulled his hand away, exhaling sharply and pushing the pain back. It was agonizing, but compared to hell it was a walk in the park. A very lovely park.

He flicked blood from his fingers, but didn't see where it landed. He vaguely wondered if it landed at all, but even as he bent down to look, the agony in his chest vanished once again. He straightened, lifting up his shirt. Not a scratch was left again. It'd been a flicker—barely a glimpse, and then he was whole again.

Well, this was going to be fun, if every five minutes he finds himself sliced up like a Thanksgiving turkey.

"Sammy," Dean said, wiping his mouth. He felt exhausted and dehydrated—two things he hadn't thought spirits could feel, before his trip to hell. Wonder if he could drink at all, or if he'd be stuck like this until . . . . well, until they put him down, or whatever the hell.

_Where was his Reaper this time to help him go to rest? He didn't want to go crazy with denial or whatever-the-hell that one Reaper at the hospital all those months ago had told him ghosts did if they stuck around too long._

That'd been a lifetime ago.

Heh.

How did ghosts do this crap, anyway? Plenty of ghosts showed up far from where their bodies were buried. What did they do? Hitchhike? How the hell'd they appear and disappear or whatever the hell, anyway?

With nothing better to do, he started walking.

---------------------------------------

Two states and miles away, a black impala cruised down the freeway. An iPod shone where it was hooked up to the speakers, singing out classic rock.

"Three more hours," the dark-haired woman in the shotgun seat said, glancing at the driver. "Are you sure you don't want me to take a turn driving? You could use the rest."

"Positive."

"_Sam_."

"We've talked about this, Ruby." Sam said shortly.

The woman glowered, crossing her arms beneath her breasts. "He's dead, Sam."

Sam's knuckles turned white on the wheel. "I haven't given up hope yet."

"Even if by some miracle you find another way to try to bring him back, and _if_ by some miracle this one actually works, it's not like he'd ever find out."

Sam pressed his lips together and said nothing.

Ruby edged across the seat, unbuckling her seatbelt and sliding over. She brushed her lips against his cheek, nuzzling him. "I wouldn't tell him," she purred. He pulled away.

"Put your seatbelt back on," Sam said.

Ruby pulled back, glaring. "I told you opening the Devil's Gate wouldn't work."

"So you're telling me 'I told you so'?"

"Of course not. I just don't see why you're taking this out on me."

Sam sighed, rubbing a hand through his hair. His expression cracked, he glanced over at her. He looked exhausted; dark circles ringed his eyes and his face had a pale hue, especially contrasting again the large black bruise that covered half of his face and had swollen his left eye half-shut, and his eyes were dull and red-rimmed with the newest defeat.

"I'm not," he sighed. "Just—put your seatbelt back on, okay?"

Ruby obeyed, ridiculous as it was. A crash couldn't hurt her for long, and Sam knew it. Probably more worried about the damage she could do to the windshield if she flew through it.

She eyed Sam. He was clearly on his last leg. "Are you sure you don't want me to drive?"

Sam sighed, not answering immediately.

"Yes," he said wearily. They'd had this discussion a hundred times.

"Because Dean would roll in his grave to have a demon ride his baby?" Ruby drawled sarcastically.

"_Don't_ talk about him," Sam said, his voice soft and short.

Ruby held up her hands innocently. "Fine," she said. She turned away, tapping dully on the seat as she looked out the window. This is why she rarely opted to drive anywhere, but Sam hadn't slept for two days—hell, he hadn't slept _well_ in months—and she hadn't brought him this far to watch his body get wrapped around a tree because he fell asleep at the wheel.

The opening notes of Bon Jovi's 'Wanted Dead or Alive' turned on. The words had begun before Sam noticed.

"It's all the same, only the names will change—" Sam twitched, reaching over and grabbing the iPod to turn off the power, cutting the song short.

"I like that song," Ruby protested.

"Driver picks the music, shotgun shuts his piehole," Sam replied, his voice an odd mix between sternness, weariness, and a strange automation that made his words feel as if they were spoken by rote, rather than choice.

Silence. Ruby looked at him, nothing but the steady hum of the engine filling the air between them.

"That's Dean's line," Ruby said after a long pause. "You always get that look on your face when you're acting like him." There was a beat. "You wear that expression a lot, you know."

Sam pressed his lips together, swallowing. He didn't look at her.

"Well, this is fun," Ruby said dryly.

"Get out of here, Ruby," Sam whispered, his voice rough. "Now."

"You kicking me out?"

The car screeched to a stop, and Ruby gasped despite herself as the seatbelt kept her from slamming against the dashboard. Sam jerked the car into neutral and pulled out his knife.

Ruby raised an eyebrow, unimpressed. "You won't kill me."

"Dean would want me to. Dean wanted me to," Sam said roughly.

"But you won't."

Sam's jaw twitched. "Maybe not. But I'll bet it'll hurt like hell."

Ruby tutted at him. "Really, Sammy."

"Get. Out," Sam gritted.

"Fine." Ruby unbuckled her seatbelt, opening the door and stepping out. "You're out of control, Sam. Dean wouldn't want you destroying yourself in a vain attempt to get him back."

_Dean wouldn't have room to talk_, Sam thought, but kept it to himself. Ruby looked at him knowingly.

"Don't call me; I'll call you," she said.

Sam didn't answer. As soon as she closed the door he gunned the engine, taking off down the road.

The silence of the car was complete. Sam swallowed, blinking, but that didn't work long. Tears dripped down his face, and his breath hitched.

_Dean, falling to the floor, agony and shock spread over his face as he turned his last look to his brother—terrified. Not just of hell, but terrified to leave him, all alone, with Lilith. That in the end, he couldn't go out protecting him._

_To the end he was more concerned about his little brother than himself. He always had been._

And now he was suffering in hell—in a place even Ruby refused to even begin to describe.

_Why did you do it, Dean? Why?_

Sam wiped his eyes. It wasn't over. He had to keep looking, keep trying. Keep trying . . . .

He the car to the side of the road and bowed his head against the wheel.

He'd tried. He'd fought, he'd searched, he'd prayed, he'd even begged God, Heaven, Hell, and all of their members. Nothing.

_Dean . . . ._

He gritted his teeth, slamming his fist against the wheel.

It was no use. He'd failed him. Again.

And didn't know where to turn now.

---------------------------------------------

Dean tried running at first, seeing if he could zip by like ghosts sometimes did, but while it did take him a couple miles a bit faster and didn't seem to tire him, it didn't help his progress enough. Even running, it'd take weeks to walk to Bobby's. He guessed, anyway. It's not like he knew where the hell he was, anyway.

One car drove by. He tried flagging it down before he thought about it, but whether they could see him or not, they drove by without even tapping the breaks. Dean flipped them off out of principle.

The sun had begun to set when he slumped down at the side of the road. Blood had started leaking down his chest again, like he was being mauled in slow motion. Great.

He limped off the highway, sitting down gingerly in the field. The wind was cold, he was cold. He pulled his jacket close, but it was wet, thin—the wind pierced through it like it wasn't even there.

The sun's glow touched down on the horizon, and Dean looked up, looking right into the sun. It wasn't like he could burn out his eyes, after all.

He shuddered. Not a good image. Not a good one at all, especially after having experienced what that actually felt like more than a few times himself.

He sank back, letting himself relax for the first time since . . . .

Months. No, years. An eternity.

The stars fell down around him. Darkness, peaceful darkness. He felt some tension leave his shoulders—his spirit shoulders, or whatever the hell.

He wasn't used to walking in the light. Not anymore. It was better here.

The darkness was peaceful. Quiet. The sound of the crickets in the field and the wind in the grass was the most beautiful thing he could remember ever hearing.

He leaned his head back into the grass, shutting his eyes.

Just the fact that he could made his eyes burn beneath the lids, and he took a deep breath to keep the tears from falling.

Rest.

He could see them, when he closed his eyes—faces, burned into the inside of his eyelids.

His Dad. Smiling, firm, powerful. Nothing could get by John Winchester—not anything.

And then there was Sam. Tall, brilliant, sensitive, brooding, block-headed Sammy.

It was funny; he looked younger in his mind. He could see a thousand scraped knees and proud straight A report cards. Nightmares where he needed comfort, or times when he burst into a fight, guns blazing as his eyes caught desperately onto his older brother. Times when Dean wanted to smile like a proud parent and clap him on the shoulder, saying, "That's my boy," or times when he wanted to throw him out of the car for being such a kid brother.

He could see him lost, afraid, hurt. And worst of all—alone.

But they were there. They were there, inside of him, in a way he'd thought he'd never see in person again.

But they'd kept even that from him.

He never wanted to open his eyes again.

_Because if he opened them again . . . when he saw again . . . it would start all over, starting with them ripping away his eyelids, leaving him no place to hide. Like they always did, carving him up like a slaughtered pig._

He shuddered, but the sound of the wind and the smell of the earth grounded him.

There were no screams here. No stink of blood and terror and despair. No terrible, licking flames and burning lights.

If he opened his eyes he'd see the stars.

He knew he'd have to do it eventually. He had to find Sammy. He had to make he was all right.

But for a few more moments, at least, he let his eyes stay shut. He let himself remember, and let himself begin to forget.

------------------------------------

TBC . . . .

. . . Reviews please?


	4. Seeing Things

Okay. Here it is. Sorry for the long wait, people. Finals and family coming into town is killer on asociality i.e. writing.

This one's a bit longer, though. Hopefully that helps make up for it.

Thanks for the reviews thus far. I hope you guys keep enjoying this.

----------------------------------------

Chapter 4: Seeing Things

-------------------------------------------

It was late when Sam pulled into the cheap motel lot. He stepped out of the car, taking a swig from the beer he'd grabbed from a stop on the way there, and grabbed his bag and laptop.

The doorknob was loose, and he had to shake it before the key slid all the way in and twisted to let him in. He locked the deadbolt behind him—even if it didn't do much against supernatural intruders, he had enough to worry about without having to deal with some stupid civilian criminals looking for an easy steal.

He flicked on the dim yellowed light, dumping his bags on the single queen-sized bed. He didn't pause before going into a full circle of the room, pausing now and again to take another swig of beer. Under the bed was clean, as well as under the sink and in the desk.

No hex bags. No sulfur, ozone, or physical booby traps. Nothing out of place.

Satisfied at last, he drained the rest of his beer, slammed the empty bottle down on the bedside desk, and kicked off his shoes.

Getting ready for bed was mechanical. So much had become automatic over the last months. At first he'd forgotten it completely—forgotten to eat, to sleep. Ruby'd helped shock him back into his normal routine, but even that was empty. No teasing banter, no arguing for the first shower. Nobody standing next to him gargling as he brushed his teeth.

Little things, little nothings. It was those things that he missed the most. Those, and whenever he got into a tight spot and no matter how much he told himself that Dean was dead, a part of him would irrationally stay calm, trying to reassure him, "Dean is out there. Dean will come. He always does."

It only made it hurt more when he remembered that he wasn't coming for him, and he never would again.

Sam crawled into bed, burrowing into the stiff sheets and looking unseeingly at the bare wall.

Sleep was going to be a long time coming.

-------------------------------------------------

_The whole room seemed to shake, darkness pushing against the windows, shaking at the doors, choking the air he breathed._

_Sam knew the room. He knew this scene. He'd lived it a thousand times._

_Dean turned to him, his eyes wide._

Oh, God—not again.

_Sam was thrown back, paralyzed. Something unseen slammed into Dean, carrying him to the ground, ripping into his chest, blood splattering as he screamed, gasping . . . ._

"_No! DEAN! DEAN!"_

_He couldn't move, couldn't get to him, and Dean was slipping away into darkness, his dead, glossed-over eyes grabbing at him, tearing. Fading._

"_Sammy . . . ."_

_DEAN!_

_He was gone. Dead, empty, but for those accusing eyes staring at him, blood flicked across his bloodless face._

_But he could still hear him, calling him. Begging . . . ._

_Sam sank into the darkness, letting it take him._

_  
Too much . . . it was too much._

"Sam?"

_That voice. It was young—just a kid's voice—a ghost from the past, but he knew it. It wrapped around him like a blanket, protecting him and guiding him out. Caught him, holding him steady, pushing away the panic, the despair._

"Sammy?"

_Dean. God, Dean. I've tried to save you. I've tried . . . ._

"Hey, Sam. Sammy!"

Sam blinked awake, disoriented. A hand caught his shoulder, and a familiar voice soothed him.

"Hey. Hey, kiddo. Just a bad dream."

Sam felt his heart shrivel up inside him and crawl up his throat. It was him. He sounded younger, barely more than a child, but Sam remembered. His own voice came out more as a strangled gasp than actually spoken. "Dean?"

"It's all right, Sammy. I got you."

Something brushed against him and he recoiled back. The room was too dark; he couldn't see. He reached blindly for the bedside lamp.

_Click._

The yellowed light flooded the room, and Sam sat up, looking frantically around the room.

"Dean?"

He flung the covers off, scrambling out of bed and looking around. "Dean!" The room was silent. "Dean?"

Nothing.

_Stupid_.

Dreaming. Not a normal one, but considering he usually relived watching his brother be ripped up before his eyes, it wasn't altogether so bad.

He leaned back into bed. He rubbed his eyes, letting out a long sigh. It was hard to swallow.

_It was stupid_. But how many times Sam had woken up to that—to Dean's voice, telling him it was just a dream, that it would be okay. He could almost still feel his hands on his shoulders, shaking him gently awake.

Sam reached over, grabbing another beer out of his bag and opening it. He drained half of it before putting it on his desktop next to the two other bottles and collapsing back into bed, his eyes open in the darkness as he refused to let himself think, refused to let himself remember. It hurt too much.

---------------------------

Dean jerked awake. Or conscious, or whatever a ghost did coming back from dreaming, or something (Did spirits even need to sleep?).

He'd been dreaming about Sam. One of his nightmares he had had as a kid. He'd woken him up and gone to hold him, but then . . . .

Dean shook his head, opening his eyes, and—

What the hell?

He climbed to his feet slowly.

The field he'd fallen asleep in was gone. The road was gone, and the cloudless sky had been replaced by thick overcast.

The sun had already risen, the light diffused through the clouds to cast the empty lot he'd been lying into a flat grey illumination.

Where the hell was he? How much time had passed?

Why'd he black out at all?

He really hoped he hadn't gone psycho and killed anyone. Would he even remember if he did? Who knew how this ghost thing worked?

A car drove by and Dean glanced over, walking towards the sidewalk. A group of teenagers walked past, clustered around some new electronic gadget and talking excitedly. They didn't glance in his direction, and he didn't even bother trying to get their attention.

He stepped onto the sidewalk, dodging around a suited man who nearly ran right through him. "Well, good morning to you too," he called after him, but again more out of principle than anything else. He stepped to the curb, putting his hands in his pockets and looking around.

It was a typical small town. The lot was the only empty space on what might have been one of the main streets of the place, and half the vehicles parked along the side of the street were mu and rust-crusted trucks that looked like they'd been given their fair share of hard labor.

With a glance back at the lot, he moved down the sidewalk.

Must be a school day. Nothing else would rationally get those teenagers out of bed this early in the day. Most of the small businesses had yet to open, though Dean stopped outside a café before he could kick himself to keep going.

Sure, it'd been forever since he'd had a meal, and the idea of eggs and bacon sounded like heaven. His stomach growled uncomfortably, and he stopped, looking in the window with a distinctly irritated expression.

Okay, he wasn't starving, but going without tasting good food for so long made almost anything just sound good, if only for the experience.

How could his stomach even growl, if he was a damned ghost?

He was beginning to understand that the afterlife was just about as fair as life.

He licked his lips and swallowed, glancing at a newspaper dispenser. He stepped forward, crouching down to read as best as he could through the smudged glass.

_No Leads on the Meyers Murder._

Huh. This looked promising.

Lady'd suffocated to death at her mother's house. Strangled to death, by the reports.

But no murder weapon, no one else in the house but Mrs. Meyers' aged mother, who'd only left the room for a moment to fix some tea.

She hadn't heard a thing.

Dean straightened, frowning.

So what? He was brought here to have a case thrown onto his lap?

And what the hell was he supposed to do about it? He ran a hand through his hair, breathing out a long sigh, and a guy walked through him.

Well, it took him a second to realize that was what happened. His vision went black and he blinked, only to open his eyes to the back of someone's head. Dean stumbled backwards with a bitten-off curse, feeling like a bucket of steaming-hot water had been thrown over his head.

He gasped as a short old lady's white-haired head burst clean through his chest as he stumbled back into her (literally). He jerked backwards, tripping right through her dog, which reeled around, yipping wildly, and latched onto his ankle with a savage snarl.

Falling through people was unpleasant and startling enough, but having to go through that and then have a mangy mutt the size of a sewer rat turn around and _bite_ him took the cake.

Off balance and reeling, he threw his hand out to catch himself against the café's front . . . and slipped right through the wall.

He hit the ground hard, his whole being tingling like a leg that'd fallen asleep. Fire shot through his body and he scrambled backwards, crawling through two sets of legs and a table before standing up.

"Son of a bitch!"

He straightened his jacket roughly, shaking out his arms to try and get rid of the pins and needles. He glared around at the oblivious café, frowning at the couple's legs which he'd crawled through.

He turned away, heading for the door, but paused, licking his lips at the sight a stack of pancakes and bacon being smothered with syrup behind the counter.

"Oh, man, what I'd give for the house special," he mumbled.

A bell rang as someone came in through the door, and Dean took a step to the side.

One thing for sure, he did not like going through people. Felt like a hot flash, and it didn't feel good.

The ceiling lights began to flicker, and Dean looked up warily.

"Can I help you?"

Dean glanced at the lady who'd moved in front of him, who was busy tying on her apron. She looked like life had given her one-too-many lemons, and she'd decided to eat them whole and raw—no lemonade for her. He raised his eyebrows, but when no response came, he looked back the fat guy who'd come in, and started to get out of the way.

"No, you. What can I get you?"

Dean did a double take, glancing at her, then back at the crispy-crème filled man in a Metallica t-shirt who was standing by the bakery selection, his face close to the glass. Dean pointed to himself. "You talkin' to me?" His voice was dry and raspy, and he swallowed, trying to clear his throat.

"No. I mean Casper," the lady drawled, raising an irritated eyebrow and pursing her pinched lips in annoyance. "Who do you think I was talking to?"

Dean opened his mouth and closed it again. "I . . . uh." Smooth. Real nice. He cleared his throat, leaning on the counter after testing to make sure he wouldn't slide right through it. "Actually, Miss . . . ." He read her nametag. "Ludwig. I'm just passing through, and must've missed the city marker."

"You're in Lockton, Misery. Now you gonna buy something or not?"

"Lockton?" Oh _Missouri. _Well, misery fit well enough. He brushed a hand over his forehead, letting out a breath. His hand came away damp with sweat. The damn tingling hadn't stopped yet, either.

"You all right, boy?"

Dean straightened, flashing her his trademark smile. "Yeah, fine."

She was unimpressed. Well, there was a first time for everything. "Huh. 'Cause you don't look so good, honey."

"I'm fine," Dean repeated, rubbing his chest absently. "So . . . hear about the Meyers murder?"

She looked at him sharply. "Yes. Why do you want to know?" she asked tightly.

"Just curious. Doesn't seem like the kind of thing that happens in towns like this."

She was slightly placated. "Nobody saw it coming. She was such a good woman, too. Wonderful family. Mrs. Meyers used to come by every morning for her coffee, and always stopped to have a good word or too." She sighed, her expression softening. "It was a hard blow."

Dean leaned against the counter. He nodded, creating an expression of what he hoped was sympathy.

"Ahh. . . . aaaaaaeeeek!" Miss Ludwig screeched. Dean whipped around on the balls of his feet. "OH MY—" She put a hand over her mouth, her eyes nearly popping from her skull as she pointed a hand at his chest.

Dean followed her gaze. He'd unconsciously put a hand on his chest, and he hadn't even noticed the blood bubbling through his fingers onto the floor from the gashes that stretched from his shoulders down his torso.

"Oh. Great."

"AAAAHHH!" The old lady reeled back, falling against the counter, struggling for breath as her face began turning plum-purple.

God. She was having a heart attack.

Dean pulled his jacket closed and leaped through the counter, kneeling by her side. "Lady! Hey, breathe, lady. It's okay."

"_AH! Ah! Ah! Get away from me!"_

"Mrs. Ludwig? Mrs. Ludwig, what—?" A pale boy with too-long legs darted from behind the counter, and Dean scrambled to get out of the way, standing and putting a hand on the counter. The man grabbed the lady to keep her from falling.

But she was already beginning to rise, looking around frantically. "Where'd he go? D-didn't you see it, Henry? Didn't you—"

Her groping hand knocked a saltshaker over, and before Dean even thought to move the crystals scattered across the counter and right through his hand.

White fire ate through his fingers, shooting into his veins and blasting to his core in the same moment, and he went blind in the whiteness. He was drowning, choking, consumed by a white flame in a millisecond.

And just as fast as it'd come, it was over.

He blinked furiously, trying to clear his vision of the white blindness. Shadows formed, and then shapes, and finally color.

"Oh, come on. You gotta be kidding me."

He stood in the middle of an all-too-familiar empty lot on the side of the street.

"What the hell?" Dean demanded to the air. He sucked on his hand where the salt had stung right through him, then shook it at the sky. "You mean I'm gonna haunt some damn empty lot for the rest of my existence? Hell, if that's it, I can see why spirits go psycho!"

No answer. Of course, who did he expect to answer? God?

He laughed mirthlessly, turning back to the street.

He put his hands in his pockets. The old lady with the dog had reached the sidewalk in front of the empty lot and were passing by. The dog was ignoring his owners chiding hushes, had gripped its own leash in its teeth, and was snarling towards him.

Dean stuck his hands in his pockets and stared back, eyes narrowed. He hated dogs.

The old lady glanced in his direction and he raised a hand uncertainly. "Morning," he tried.

She squinted through her glasses, but her eyes didn't focus on him. After a moment she dragged her dog away.

Okay. No go that time. Either that or the lady was deaf and blind.

He went up to the sidewalk, carefully prodding the corner of the building next to the lot before leaning back against it.

Lockton, Missouri. Never been there in his life, and couldn't remember Dad ever mentioning it.

Why here, why now? Even if this Meyers murder was a case, why was he connected to it?

More kids coming down the walk. These ones in a hurry to school. Dean tried to catch their eyes, but they looked right over him without even a cursory glance and kept walking.

"This seriously sucks."

The lady in the café had seen him. Had it been something about her, or had he done something?

"Hey," Dean nodded to a passing biker. Not even a flicker. Dean was half-tempted to stand in the middle of the road and refuse to move until someone started cussing at him.

Might explain some road-hauntings they'd had to deal with in times past. People just sick of being ignored.

Dean straightened, glancing towards the street, but then froze.

A black Impala pulled out of the hotel across the street, turned right, and rumbled down the street, purring.

He'd know his baby anywhere.

TBC . . .


End file.
